Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  It was at this moment in her nightmare that Rhowenna always awakened, driven by fear to search out the strand, to make certain a clutch of dragons had not come fleet and fierce from the north, down the Swan Road of the Great Sea, a gold-headed god at their fore.

  In her lifetime, they had not come to Usk.

  Only from the tales of the warriors and the songs of the bards had she knowledge of how the marauders were wont to swoop down from their Northland to attack, to plunder, and to lay waste to the kingdoms of the Shetlands, Orkneys, Caledonia, Britain, Erin, Frisia, Brittany, Normandy, and the Frankish and Germanic lands of what had once been the vast Carolingian Empire ruled by Charlemagne. Yet in her mind, she beheld the red-sailed longships as clear and sharp in detail as though she had seen them a hundred times before. Fate. Destiny.

  Trembling, Rhowenna knelt upon the sand beneath the pale, misty stars that gleamed like the eyes of a thousand distant dragons in the night sky. Bowing her head and clasping her crucifix tight, she began earnestly, fervently, to pray— not to the old gods, but to the Christ, who was merciful, or so the priests said. Her lips moved as she whispered the litany over and over, as though it were a spell to protect her:

  "A furore Normannorum, Domine, libera nos. A furore Normannorum, Domine, libera nos."

  It was the only Latin that Rhowenna knew— but like all in Walas, young or old, she knew it by heart: From the fury of the Northmen, O Lord, deliver us.

  Book One: Dragons Breathing Fire and Death

  Chapter One

  Check to the King

  The Southern Coast of Usk, Walas, A.D. 865

  The morning was half gone when Rhowenna finally awoke, although she was hardly rested, even so. When she had returned from the shore, she had been so troubled and torn by her dream that she had not closed her eyes again until the gloomy grey dawn had broken on the horizon, shrouded with mist, bleak with drizzle. She had shivered and been glad to burrow deeper beneath her fur blankets; and presently, sleep had claimed her at last. But the rest of the household had been stirred to wakefulness by the slowly lightening sky; and now from beyond her sleeping chamber, Rhowenna could hear the familiar noises of both her father's royal manor and the village beyond the palisade: the chatter of the servants as they cleared the morning meal from the long trestle tables in the great hall, the clank of pots and pans in the kitchen, the shouts and laughter of the housecarls outside, the blowing and stamping of horses shivering in the wet bailey, the barking of dogs, the cackling of geese and chickens, the snorting of pigs, and the bleat of goats and sheep from the hides of the ceorls.

  Loath to leave her bed's warm confines, Rhowenna marveled that all should sound so normal, that life at her father's royal manor should go on as though a cloud of doom did not hang over it. But then, why should it not? She alone was privy to her dream. Not for the first time did she shudder at the thought that perhaps with her very silence, she ensured the truth of her vision. If she gave no warning and the Northmen did come to commit their carnage, would she not be as guilty as they for the slaughter of her people? Surely, that must count as a sin greater than the Sight, more evil than the witchery against which Father Cadwyr would assuredly rail should she speak of what she had foreseen.

  In the old days, before the advent of the priests, her dream would have been revered as a gift from the old gods and she herself regarded as a seeress. Rhowenna yearned for that time when her people had understood the mysteries of things that now appeared beyond their ken, that were called evil by the priests, the work of the devil. The priests claimed to bring enlightenment to the world; yet their words were as dark as their robes, and for all their talk of mercy, their God was a jealous and vengeful God, Rhowenna thought. Sometimes, her faith in Him faltered; she did not comprehend why so much that seemed natural and right to her should be considered sinful by Him. Sometimes, she thought that the priests themselves did not understand what they preached, or even that they twisted God's will and words to suit themselves; for who was to know or to say any different? But these were blasphemous thoughts; she should confess them, she knew. Still, she did not. She did not want to tell her innermost thoughts to the priests, especially to Father Cadwyr.

  Thus, although Rhowenna longed for guidance, she did not know whom to ask for it. Although he was a fierce warrior, renowned for his prowess in battle, her father, Pen-dragon, feared the priests, with their talk of eternal damnation and hellfire and brimstone for the souls of those who did not follow the way of the Christ. Her father would be frightened by her dream, by the thought that Father Cadwyr might believe him to be rearing a godless daughter or, worse, one dedicated to the old religion, to the old gods, who were false idols. Her mother, Igraine, more inclined to put her faith in her own good judgment than in the counsel of the priests, was a likelier prospect for advice. But upon such a serious matter, perhaps she would feel duty-bound to consult her husband. Nor could Rhowenna bear to tell Gwydion she had envisioned his death at the hands of the Northmen; and Enid, her waiting woman, would only be stricken with panic at the notion of the Northmen's descending upon the kingdom of Usk. There was no one to whom Rhowenna could turn.

  Sighing heavily, she rose, deeply distressed and knowing, as well, that for her tardiness this day, she would be rebuked by her mother. After washing her face and hands in the icy water of her bronze basin, she stripped off her nightgown to don a workaday dress of plain, undyed wool. She had just finished dressing when Enid appeared in the doorway, with a cup of milk, a bowl of thick porridge, and a cake of laverbread that had been fried in pork fat and spread generously with honey, all of which she had kindly saved for her mistress from the morning meal. As Rhowenna sat down upon a low stool to eat, Enid took up a comb of fine, carved horn and began to work the snarls from Rhowenna's long hair and to plait it into a single braid tied with a simple thong. Mistress and maid had been together since childhood, so it was a familiar morning ritual they shared, most often with companionable talk and laughter. Today, however, Rhowenna, lost in her disheartening reverie, was inclined toward silence; and Enid, sensing this, said little, although, once, she did remark that Rhowenna looked tired, even ill, and then quietly fussed over her more than was usual.

  As she gazed at her reflection in her polished bronze mirror, Rhowenna agreed with Enid's assessment of her appearance. Her face was drawn and wan, and beneath her eyes, crescent smudges of mauve shone dark against her milk-white skin. She resembled the witch Father Cadwyr would surely name her if he learned of her dream, she thought dully; for her heavy mass of knee-length hair was as black and shimmering as a raven's rain-soaked wing, and her eyes were startling, a strange, crystalline violet in color, like amethysts, and slanted and heavily fringed with sooty lashes. No one in Usk had eyes like hers, and because of that, there were many who believed her fey, a changeling, and made the ancient sign against evil when she passed by. Should he be given a reason to condemn her, Rhowenna knew that Father Cadwyr would have no difficulty in finding supporters for his cause.

  She had never liked the priest. His black eyes burned like hot coals when he looked at her, and she saw in his fervid glance a licking flame of covetous desire that did not belong in the eyes of a celibate, a man devoted to the work of the Christ. In the village, she had heard rumors that Father Cadwyr lay with women, for which he despised and condemned them bitterly, and flagellated himself mercilessly afterward. But if such were true, he was careful to conceal his sins and always showed an appropriately pious face to her father. Still, Rhowenna mistrusted him.

  Yet there were those, too, who thought her beautiful and who loved her well. Her kinsman Gwydion was one of these. She trembled whenever she thought of him— and she thought of him often these days; for if there were other men who looked with favor upon her, Rhowenna did not see them. She saw only Gwydion— tall, as dark as bronze, as lithe as a sapling, his young body as graceful and swift and hard as an arrow on the fly, his hair as black as her own, his eyes as grey as the mist, as the Great Sea. In Gwy
dion as in Rhowenna herself, the blood of the Picti and of the Tribes was strong and marked. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him. She had known him all her life; yet it was not until they each had stepped over the threshold of adulthood that she had come to regard him with more than just sisterly affection.

  At age ten, Gwydion had been fostered to one of her father's earls, and Rhowenna had seen him only rarely until the day when, his training completed, he had returned home. A boy when he had gone away, he had come back a man— no longer merely her kinsman, her childhood playmate and friend, but a stranger, in ways that had excited and intrigued her. The touch of his hand upon hers had scalded her. Even now at the memory, heat rose within her, making her cheeks flame.

  Glimpsing herself again in her mirror, Rhowenna turned away quickly, biting her lower lip, her lashes sweeping down as though to veil her thoughts from her own image. Flustered, she took up from her dressing table the gold circlet, engraved and nielloed, that she wore as princess of Usk and clasped it about her head. It was a reminder, however unpleasant, of her rank, of the fact that no matter how much she hoped otherwise, her father was unlikely to choose as a husband for his only daughter a mere kinsman, when she might command a prince— or even a king. Rhowenna shrank from the idea of being sent away to some foreign land, of being wedded and bedded by a man who, however royal his blood, would be a total stranger to her. Still, even that would be better than being a captive of the Northmen who rampaged through her nightmare.

  Glancing once more into her mirror, she pinched her pallid cheeks hard to put some color in them. Then, overhearing her mother asking Enid about her, Rhowenna stepped from her sleeping chamber into the great hall, hoping fervently that Father Cadwyr would not be there, as he often was, looking, with his dark, flowing robes and his black, glowing eyes, like some fierce bird of prey waiting to swoop down upon her and tear at her young flesh. To her relief, the priest was absent, as was her father, who had gone hunting with several of the housecarls. Only a few of the elderly warriors had remained behind. Two of them contested over a chessboard; the rest sat around the fire in the central hearth, repairing and cleaning armor, reminiscing about the hunts of their youth and, with cups of mead and mulled wine, warming their old bones, glad to be inside on this dismal winter's day. Here, too, Rhowenna dis- covered her mother, assisted by a few of the serving maids, at the large loom that stood in one corner.

  "The morn is well advanced. You slept late this day, daughter," Igraine observed in greeting as she looked up from where she sat, her fine black eyebrows arching with gentle reproof when she spoke. But there was concern, too, upon the Queen's beautiful face. "That is the third time this week. Are you ill, Rhowenna?"

  "Nay, just not sleeping well, Mother."

  Which was the truth, Rhowenna thought, casting her eyes down to hide the fact that there was more to it than that and hoping that her mother would be satisfied by the response. The Queen was very good at discerning a lie; beneath her steady, dark blue-eyed gaze, many a housecarl, servant, and ceorl grew uncomfortable and faltered during the telling of some false story and finally confessed the true tale. Even Pendragon's earls were wary of Igraine's sharp scrutiny; much of the King's power and many of his decisions had their roots in the Queen's shrewd, uncanny perception.

  Now, as though sensing there was indeed more to the matter than Rhowenna had admitted, Igraine frowned. For a moment, it seemed she would press the issue. Then, glancing about the great hall at the housecarls and serving women, she appeared abruptly to change her mind. In these troubled times, only an innocent was trusting, a fool, careless—and the Queen was neither. Words heedlessly spoken before warriors and servants often— for a handful of coins or baubles, or to avenge a grievance, whether real or imagined— found their way to the ears of one's enemies, to be used against one by the ambitious and unscrupulous. Strategically located Usk was neither a large nor a powerful kingdom. That it was yet whole and independent owed more to its natural boundaries and to the cleverness and diplomacy of its rulers than to the might of its army; for its warriors, although fierce, were few compared to those of its neighbors. As a result, Usk wisely minded its own business and did not attract attention to itself by dabbling in the struggles and intrigues of others. Its great hall was not ostentatious; it did not display the riches garnered from the land and from the Great Sea or from the traders. Although Usk's coffers were full, Pendragon was frequently heard to lament a bad harvest, the poor hunting and fishing, and an empty purse, so Usk—when thought of at all by those who would conquer and carve up what was not theirs by birthright— was often discounted by the foolish as a petty kingdom of no great wealth or importance.

  "I will prepare you a sleeping draught this evening, daughter, if you like," Igraine offered after a moment, casually.

  Rhowenna had inherited her mother's intelligence and insight, and she was not deceived by the Queen's tone. It held a note she recognized as a harbinger of a private conversation later. Her heart sank at the sound, for although she yearned to unburden herself to her mother, the unknown consequences of that act discouraged her. Still, she nodded.

  "Aye, perhaps 'twould help," she said.

  And perhaps that, too, was the truth, she thought as she dragged a low stool over to the circle of women and, taking up her reel and spindle, began her own work for the day. Being neither vain nor lazy, the Queen turned her hand as quickly and easily to a bone needle as she did to a bone chessman; and through the years, she had trained Rhowenna to do the same, instilling in her the belief that idleness and ignorance led to no good, and teaching her not only the knowledge required to manage a royal manor, but also the lore of the Picti and of the Tribes, which had been handed down through the ages from female to female. There was no task of either chatelaine or serving woman that Rhowenna could not perform. She should have thought of a sleeping potion herself, she realized belatedly. The various properties of flowers and roots, herbs and spices, how to make medicinal tinctures and decoctions, were as well known to her as to her mother. Perhaps with a sleeping draught, the dream would vanish. That, instead, it might well be enhanced by a potion was a thought that, shivering a little, Rhowenna did not dwell on as her nimble fingers twirled the reel and spindle, turning carded wool into a fine, even yarn she would later weave upon her own small loom. If she dyed the fabric Tyrian purple, it would make a handsome cloak for her father, she mused as she spun, and perhaps she could speak to one of the metalworkers about fashioning a brooch to pin the cloak, a gold circlet with a winged, serpentine dragon at its heart. That would please her father, for the dragon was his emblem.

  Focusing on such matters as these, Rhowenna forced herself to occupy her mind as she occupied her hands with her work. She would ponder her dream no more, she told herself sternly, but put it from her head. If the priests spoke truly, the vision was false and wicked, sent to her by the devil to tempt her to damnation if he could. She would not imperil her immortal soul. Even the old gods had warned of the consequences upon those who would commune with demons.

  Rhowenna listened with only half an ear to the shallow chatter of the serving women as they bickered about the simple, mundane matters that were their own lot and that did not interest her. There was little to be gleaned from workers who grew more quarrelsome during the long grey winter months, when there was little to do except to sit beside the fire in the shadowy great hall and to sew, to spin, or to weave. Sometimes Owain, the bard, entertained the women with his songs and storytelling, but he was nowhere to be seen this day. Like as not, he had joined the hunt, eager to escape from the dreary confines of the royal manor. Rhowenna did not blame him. She, too, would have been glad to venture outside for a while, despite the inclement weather. She felt torpid and thick-headed from lack of sun and sleep. She wished she were a fat bear, who could just hibernate all winter and have no worries beyond being safe and snug in some cave, slumbering, dreamless, until spring instead of sitting and spinning and fretting.

  But ther
e was no surcease from any of this as the seemingly interminable day wore on, the noon meal but a brief respite for Rhowenna from the turning of her reel and spindle. She returned dully to her work, feeling like Clotho, one of the Greeks' three Fates, who had spun endlessly, drawing out and twisting the fibers of men into the threads of life. Was there no more to be had from life than this? she wondered. Was there no more in store for her? Then, determinedly, she compelled herself once more to shake off her melancholy thoughts. They were born of the winter months and being cooped up for so long inside the royal manor, she reassured herself. She had grown as fractious as the serving women, who had begun yet another spat among themselves.

  "A dull needle and ragged stitches do not a fine gown make, Cerys," dour, shrewish Winifred chided. Always, her cold, censuring eyes watched the rest of the women avidly, alert for the slightest mistake. With her sharp, spiteful tongue, she made it her business to chastise them for any perceived fault or mistake. "That seam will never hold— and you've sewn the sleeve in crooked, besides, stupid wench!"

  As she gazed down at her botched handiwork, tears trembled on the lashes of silly young Cerys, who was gentle and harmless and meant well but who, in truth, could not be trusted with any save the simplest of tasks. She was frequently to blame for broken crockery in the kitchen and cross words in the great hall.